


Paths That Will Never Cross

by KainLightsworn



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Bring tissues, Character Death, Friends to Enemies, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mercy Killing, References to Depression, Spoilers, Tragedy, expect lots and lots of death, no beta we die like men, no seriously major spoilers for all routes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2020-12-13 17:42:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21001625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KainLightsworn/pseuds/KainLightsworn
Summary: Sometimes in wartime, fighting those you were once close to is an inevitability. In cases like that, perhaps it is best to end things personally. Sometimes that choice is made willingly. Other times it is forced upon you. Whatever the case may be, destiny is set. Where once you walked side by side, these paths will never cross again.





	1. Funeral of Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! This fanfic idea came to me as I was ruminating on the age-old Fire Emblem tradition of throwing units with close, personal relationships to enemy units at said enemies to deal the killing blow. We all do it. If only to hear the unique dialogue, we all do it. So I figured, why not make a more realistic take on that idea?
> 
> Bring tissues, y'all. This is gonna be a painful ride.

Flayn felt as though her heart was breaking as she, the professor, her “brother”, and all their allies broke through the defenses of Garreg Mach. Everything about this situation was wrong. The monastery was the second place she ever truly felt at home; they shouldn’t be destroying its hallowed walls to open passage through chokepoints. That Great Knight was Sir Gregory, not some faceless foe! Why had cruel fate allowed Rhea’s power, running mad, to turn him to a frenzied cultist who could not be persuaded to stand down? That decaying White Beast was once Cardinal Therese, who had so often passed her an extra sweet bun from the dining hall. Yet now, she was little more than a cold corpse, run through by Ferdinand’s scythe-like lance.  
  
She wanted nothing more than to curl up and sob on the ground. She dearly wanted to mourn these close friends being sent to the Goddess, but there was no time. Not only that, but the army was counting on her. She was their light, their inspiration, their reason to keep going. So she ignored her breaking heart, ignored her hair sticking to her head with sweat, forced a smile and danced. She flitted across the battlefield from soldier to soldier, bolstered by the shimmering ring on her finger, and danced as if she weren’t dodging the corpses of allies and enemies alike.  
  
She rolled her arms by Ashe’s side, and saw him rush up the stairs, nocking an arrow aimed towards Rhea’s corrupted draconic form. Rhea roared in fury as the arrow struck true, the exposed areas of her hide glowing a furious red in the night. Her bestial head reared back, took aim at Ashe, and-  
  
She rolled her arms by Ashe’s side and saw him rush up the stairs, darting to the left and giving The Immaculate One a wide berth. Flayn blinked, unable to shake the strange feeling she had experienced this before. She shook her head, dispelling the notion. While it was true the Professor held the power of the Goddess, the likelihood that she held control over time seemed out of the realm of possibility.  
  
Speaking of the Professor, she flew farther afield than Flayn could ever hope to reach atop her mighty pegasus, followed closely by Seteth and Caspar atop their wyverns. The three worked as one to make swift work of the golems that had protected the monastery since time immemorial while the rest of their strike force snuck around behind Rhea's transformed form, careful not to step within range of her vicious attacks. Though she worried for her "brother" being so far ahead of the rest, Flayn trusted the Professor would keep him safe. Each time she saw the glowing pieces of the Sword of the Creator whip through the air, she felt strength welling within her, and forced her macabre dance to keep going. That was her role. The Professor was counting on her to keep up morale, and she would not let her down.  
  
Still, even as durable as her form was, she felt exhaustion setting in. And if she was becoming exhausted, her friends and allies had to be as well. Bernadetta looked ready to fall off of her horse as the glow of healing magic around her hand faded into nothingness. Linhardt, ever the sleepyhead, looked sallow and pale as he surrendered the last of his healing energy to keep Caspar airborne. Flayn's heart did a strange dance as she saw Ferdinand joining in the frontline charge towards Rhea, sweat and armor both glistening in the scant light offered from the monastery. She bit back a shriek as Rhea blasted magical energy towards the knight with long, red hair, then heaved a silent sigh of relief when he and his horse effortlessly leaped out of the way.  
  
With the group mostly reunited on the right side of The Immaculate One, Flayn took her post at the Magic Orb on the upper level. With a sad sigh, she laid her hand upon the orb and drew her focus towards the center of The Immaculate One's body. "Rhea... How tragic." Determination creased her brow. "But there is no time to waste. She must be stopped."  
  
Even so, when Rhea cried out in pain from the orb's blast hitting the middle of her back, Flayn couldn't help but flinch. She shuddered at the sounds coming from her family as Leonie filled the dragon's hide with arrows from her beloved uncle's ancient bow.  
  
As Leonie rode off into the distance, Flayn overlooked the battlements. Petra had finished conferring with the mercenaries from Brigid, and they shoved forward a barrel brimming with noxious smoke. But something must have gone awry, as the explosion that was supposed to occur never took place-  
  
As Leonie rode off into the distance, Flayn overlooked the battlements. Sylvain, attended by a multitude of the Knights of Seiros, ran towards The Immaculate One, shoving with them a barrel full of gunpowder. The fuse was lit, all was set to go as it should, but for some reason, the gunpowder simply would not catch. Smoke filled the air, but there was no burst of flame to weaken the hide of the ancient dragon-  
  
As Leonie rode off into the distance, Flayn overlooked the battlements. Her heart swelled with admiration as Seteth, accompanied by a cadre of devoted followers of Saint Cichol, dove towards The Immaculate one, lances at the ready. After their swooping attack gouged many holes in Rhea's hide, Seteth retreated slightly, a solemn look on his face. Flayn strained to hear the voice of her "brother" over the pained screeching of The Immaculate One. "I'll inherit the pride of the Nabateans. Rest in peace by Sothis's side."  
  
A small smile graced the dancer's lips at Seteth's words. Though everything about this situation was tragic, it did her heart good to hear him pray for Rhea's peace in the afterlife. Truthfully, she had prayed for Rhea to find peace for quite some time now. Contrary to what many believed, she was not blithely blind to the troubles of those around her. Though Rhea kept a strong front, it was clear her sanity was slipping ever-so-slowly into madness as the eons wore on and her mother failed to return. So often she had wished to give her aunt a comforting embrace, as Rhea had done to her on brief visits many years ago, but keeping their true identities was more important than all else when potential enemies surrounded them on all sides. She loathed the secrecy and lies, even though she understood the need for them.  
  
The sky became lighter as the battle raged on. Periodically, the Professor's voice rose over the the battlements to signal Flayn to make use of the Magic Orb before her. She did as she was bade, proud to serve some useful purpose and to give her aching feet respite from constant motion and dancing.  
  
Caspar flew towards Rhea's neck with a mighty battle cry, the axe-breaking swing missing by a wide margin as she twisted out of the way before returning the favor with a blast of draconic breath-  
  
Sylvain traced sigils in the air, sending a blast of rainbow-colored, shimmering missiles towards The Immaculate One. The beast barely seemed to notice as it reared its head back and fired-  
  
Linhardt ran for the front lines, lightning-shaped sword sparking with electric magic as he swung mightily at Rhea's side, wrath written into his features-  
  
Flayn wrung her hands by the battlements as-  
  
Flayn wrung her hands by the battlements as-  
  
Flayn wrung her hands by the battlements as-  
  
Flayn wrung her hands by the battlements as the Professor, perched atop her pegasus, retreated several feet. The panicked tone in her next orders to Bernadetta did not escape her notice. Bernadetta rode towards Rhea, attended by the archers of house Varley, and unleashed a hail of arrows upon their draconic foe before retreating behind a wall.  
  
Bernadetta and Seteth had spent much time together of late. They thought Flayn hadn't taken notice, but as ever, she was more observant than most gave her credit for. She bit back the urge to chuckle as she thought of how her "brother's" cheeks would glow a fierce pink when she observed they had spent the evening together again, working on his book of fables.  
  
Flayn wasn't sure how she felt about this new relationship- for there was no other word to describe it than "relationship"- between the reclusive young woman and Seteth. Though Seteth would fiercely deny it, it was clear feelings beyond mere kinship had sprung between them. Flayn admired Bernadetta's fierce courage in facing not only the enemies of war, but the enemies of her mind. But could she see Bernadetta as a new mother to her? That question would have to remain unanswered until this horrible battle was finally concluded.  
  
"YOU SHALL NEVER BE FORGIVEN!"  
  
Rhea's horribly distorted voice pounded against Flayn's eardums. Her bestial form roared and reared her head back, the Crest of Seiros glowing fearsomely in her chest. The air, as it had done many times this battle, filled with a deathly chill as beams of light shone down from the heavens, surrounding Bernadetta and many of their precious allies.  
  
Flayn's eyes widened in utter horror as Bernadetta tried and failed to maneuver her horse out of the way of the deadly magic in the close quarters. Her horse's flank and a good half of her body burned in the ensuing fallout. Bernadetta's voice, though week, still carried to Flayn's ears as she expended the last of her strength. "Was there any more I... could have done...?"  
  
Sylvain, it seemed, had resigned himself to his fate, almost smiling in welcome as the beams of light fell towards him as well. "Heh. I'm not afraid. I figured it would end like this..."  
  
Leonie fell off of her horse, losing her grip on Indech's bow as an errant beam of light pierced through her armor. She groaned in pain, reaching futilely towards the Professor, who hovered scant feet away. "I'm sorry, Captain. I couldn't keep my promise."  
  
Shock set in as Flayn scanned the battlefield, beholding the dead and dying she could do nothing further to help. Her healing energy was long since expended. The next several minutes passed with painful slowness. Seteth reared back atop his wyven, Spear of Assal at the ready as he flew across the battlefield to deliver a finishing blow to The Immaculate One. Flayn's eyes widened further when she saw that the beast was prepared, her head already rearing back in preparation to fire her draconic breath. She opened her mouth to shout a warning to Seteth, but could not move fast enough.  
  
Rhea's lightning-like breath struck true, despite Seteth's best efforts to avoid it. The left wing of his wyvern disintegrated in the consuming light, sending him careening, out of control, for the battlements where Flayn stood. She fell to the ground, knocked off her feet from the force of the wyvern crashing into the wall. She forced herself to look up from the ground, and found her strength when she saw the way Seteth's body rolled like a rag doll.  
  
She ran for Seteth's side, horror painting her face as she saw the blood seeping out from where his armor had dented inward, slicing into his flesh. "Brother!"  
  
She took him into her arms, cradling him as he coughed, sending spittle and blood onto his chin. The red of his blood against the green of his facial hair painted a vivid contrast she was not soon to forget. His face was pale and coated with a sheen of sweat, his normally vivid emerald eyes dull and glossy. In the face of such images, the need for deceit crumbled into nothingness. "_Father_! Father, can you hear me?"  
  
Seteth grimaced, groaning and coughing, sending more blood from his chest and mouth. "F-Flayn. We are close to finishing this. Rhea is weakening. I cannot see this through, so-"  
  
"Do not speak that way!" Flayn demanded. "You will live, Father. You must!" She tried to force the energy of life through her weakened body to heal his wounds. She tried with all her might, ignoring her own fear of sleep, to grasp that spark of life and force it into the dying man in her arms. "Y-You must live. It is too soon for you to- I am not ready for you to die!"  
  
Seteth shook his head. "You have- grown up so much. Never doubt that I am proud. B-But now, you must finish this. It is your right, as one of the last Nabateans."  
  
He reached out his hand. Flayn's brow twisted in confusion as he took her hand in his, and gently laid both of their hands atop the Magic Orb. "See us both to Sothis's side, _Cethleann_."  
  
Tears rolled endlessly down Cethleann's cheeks as she activated the orb beneath their connected hands. She watched as the magical blast flew towards Rhea's chest. It struck true. The foundations of Garreg Mach vibrated with the force of Rhea's death screams.  
  
Even as Rhea flew away from the battlefield, the Professor in hot pursuit, Cethleann felt no desire to follow them. For in those final moments, just as dawn broke across the horizon, her father's hand and body fell limp.  
  
All else faded to unbearable stillness as she cradled her father Cichol's body and wept. For the first time in her life, she was truly, utterly alone.  
  



	2. Mutiny in the Mist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashe is forced by circumstance to face down his adoptive father. All he wants is to find a path to peace. But that point is long since passed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wrapped this chapter in my New Game+ Blue Lions run, and felt this would be an apropros update. I adore Ashe's backstory, and simply had to include elements of it in this heartwrenching tale of a battle of father and son.

Having spent many years living in Castle Gaspard, Ashe was no stranger to the thick mist that enjoyed choking the moors surrounding it at the onset of the summer. Still, according to the almanacs in the monastery library and the Knights of Seiros, the foggy season for this year was supposed to be over already. That he could hardly see his allies in front of his face sent chills down his spine, though the air remained as unseasonably hot and muggy as the northern regions of Faerghus ever got.  
  
The eerie red glow of Catherine's Relic Weapon, Thunderbrand, only intensified his sense of unease. He wasn't sure why. He should be honored to be in the presence of such a brave and strong knight as Catherine, wielding such a powerful, sacred object as Thunderbrand. Yet the look of the blade, like some ancient, yellowed bone, gave him goosebumps.  
  
Though perhaps that was less the weapon, and more the calculating look the blonde Knight of Seiros gave him. He'd meant it when he assured the others that Lonato told him nothing of any plans against the church. Still, the more Catherine studied him, the more he felt certain that she didn't trust him. If she didn't trust him, he could find himself on the receiving end of the wrath of Thunder Catherine.  
  
"Hey, Ashe. Get your head back here with the rest of us."  
  
The silver-haired lad started in place at the sound of the easygoing Sylvain's voice. He blinked, cowlike, as he watched the Professor hand a lit torch to his classmate. Ashe bit his lip as the Professor stared at him, dead-eyed, and tilted his head towards Sylvain. The implication was clear.  
  
"R-Right. I'll stick by him."  
  
He kept his ears pricked on high alert for the sound clanking armor, the brush of leather against metal, the telltale whoosh of an arrow through the woods. The shouting of the Knights of Seiros battling in the distance echoed as if underwater, leaving the area immediately surrounding their little scouting group, composed of himself, Sylvain, Annette, and Dimitri, eerily quiet.  
  
From a fair distance behind him, where the faint light of the torch held by Felix illuminated the Professor's scouting party, Ashe heard the voice of a villager he thought he recognized crying out. "Lord Lonato doesn't deserve such sadness and anger! Now, it's your turn to suffer!"  
  
Ashe didn't need to pay close attention to the ensuing scuffle to know that Felix, ever sharp with blade and tongue, had deftly disposed of the first of the militia to engage them. He buried his face in his hands with a moan. "Why, Lonato? Why did you drag so many others into this?"  
  
A battle cry emerged from the mist to his right. Moving on recently-honed instinct, Ashe drew his current bow, a smaller model meant for close quarters, and loosed two arrows into the chest of the enemy. His heart shuddered as he beheld the paling face of the owner of his favorite bakery.  
  
Again and again, he found himself face to face with the corpses of those he once knew. This was the local merchant, who always made it a point to let Ashe know when he got new books in. That was the blacksmith's second son, always eager for a fight. His little sister would be heartbroken to know the teen she had a precocious crush on had fallen. Whether arrows stuck from their chests, or they bore gashes and gouges of mighty lance strikes, it didn't matter. Dead was dead. And he had allowed it.  
  
A piercing death cry rang out across the battlefield, the thick fog slowly evaporating, dispersing to reveal the true size of Lonato's militia. Ashe strained to hear the words of his adopted father as he confronted Catherine from his crumbled stronghold, but was too far away to glean anything of significance. He leapt in surprise when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He whipped around with a cry to find Annette standing behind him, now looking as startled as he felt.  
  
"Bah! Okay, startling you ended up startling me. Bad idea." Annette laid a hand on her chest and sighed. "You need to get over there fast. If you don't Catherine might- well, she might-"  
  
Ashe bit his lip. "I- I know. I know I can't just hang back here and let him die, but c-can I- do I really have the right to face him like this? I- He-"  
  
His classmates battled the militia in the distance. He heard Dedue's mighty voice echo across the battlefield and the horrendous sound of an axe cleaving metal and bone. Felix sounded as though he was getting overwhelmed, having likely charged ahead on his own, as he was wont to do. Even Mercedes let out a shriek as she swung a lance for a weakened archer.  
  
Annette offered him an encouraging smile. "I know this is really, super tough for you. But if anyone can make him see sense, Ashe, it'll be you. I-" She looked to the monks accompanying her. "No, we all believe in you. You can do this!"  
  
As Annette's words of encouragement were echoed over and over by the monks of Seiros, Ashe felt something akin to the knightly courage he always tried to playact in his training. The stream of support lightened the weight in his chest and buoyed his movements. With an extra bounce in his step, he cut through the forest, rushing straight for where Lonato had set up camp.  
  
Yet still, he was too late. Catherine closed the distance between herself and Lonato before Ashe or anyone else could reach the old, crumbling building. Now closer, he could hear the words they exchanged as Lonato proclaimed the blonde knight had been 'deceived by that witch'. The comment sent Ashe's brow furrowing. What did he mean by 'witch'? Surely he couldn't be referring to Lady Rhea? She was distant, to be sure, but Ashe couldn't conceive of her being some sort of deceitful being.  
  
His heart thrummed as Catherine swung Thunderbrand, lunging for the man whose kind smile had seen him off to sleep for years. Her first strike missed, swinging where Lonato and his horse had been a second prior as they jumped away. The second strike swept up beneath the horse, catching against its armor and knocking it off-balance. Lonato, undeterred, steadied his mount and lunged forward with a piercing blow towards the Relic-wielder. A blow which Catherine readily dodged, then countered with a glowing, sweeping slash of Thunderbrand. The slash hit its mark, slicing through Lonato's heavily-plated armor as though it were butter. Ashe flinched to hear his father scream like that. He flinched again when Catherine followed up on the strike with another stabbing maneuver, which by the sounds of it, had lodged itself in Lonato's side.  
  
As Catherine withdrew her sword and prepared for another strike, Ashe finally closed the distance between himself and his adoptive father. Despite the pain he was in, Lord Lonato took notice of Ashe's presence, his blue-green eyes widening for only a moment before narrowing. The cold stare he gave Ashe made the boy feel as though he had done something wrong. "Stand down, Ashe. I must destroy these evil-doers by any means necessary!"  
  
Ashe shook his head, and tried calling on the training the Professor gave him to make sure his voice projected confidence and not the plaintive whine he thought his words would come across as. "Please surrender, Lonato! Whatever your reason for doing this, we can still talk this out!"  
  
His hopes that extending an olive branch to his father would end the conflict were dashed the moment Lonato's normally kind and soft face hardened with determination. "Rhea is an infidel who has deceived the people and desecrated the goddess! We have virtue and the goddess herself on our side!"  
  
Rage filled Ashe's broken heart. He'd spent more than half of the last month being reassured that those bandits they killed in the Red Canyon deserved their fate. That he and his classmates were in the right, and had the goddess supporting them in punishing the sinful. He had now heard more than enough of people justifying allowing others to be slaughtered with pretty words of divine support. "Even if all that's true, dragging the townsfolk into it like this isn't right!"  
  
Lonato's grip on his lance tightened. Ashe's stomach dropped to his feet. "Enough. If that is how you feel, prepare yourself! I'm putting an end to this!"  
  
Lonato lunged forward once more. Ashe couldn't allow himself to be paralyzed by shock, but he didn't move fast enough to avoid the full brunt of his father's lance gouging into his side. His brow twisted as he looked up to the man who'd raised him out of darkness, and saw nothing, nothing at all of the kindness he had long known.  
  
He knew if Lonato struck him again, the blow would likely be the end of him. He readied his bow and nocked an arrow, stubborn tears threatening to throw off his aim as Lonato readied another strike. He loosed his arrow. The terrible scream Lonato let out as the arrow struck his chest would echo in his memories for time immemorial.  
  
As Lonato fell from his horse and struggled to keep himself up, he groaned with weakening voice, "That vile woman... Christophe... Forgive me..."  
  
Sickly green envy flared in Ashe's eyes. There he was, treated as good as Lonato's own blood, yet the lord's last words were begging forgiveness, not from the child forced to kill him, but from his other son- _His true son_, a dark voice in his mind supplied- long since dead. The ugly jealousy faded a second later as the gravity of what he had just done set in.  
  
He collapsed to his knees by his father's side, deaf to Catherine's hollow words of congratulations and empty pity for Lonato's fate. As he stared at the cooling body of his father, his mind raced back to when they first met.  
  
_He'd gotten very good at slipping into places unnoticed. When one was a tiny little street rat of a commoner, no one paid all that much attention to where you went. Still, he felt a bit overwhelmed at the sheer size of the castle he'd found himself in. He shook his head, narrowing his eyes. He needed to focus. Noble houses had much to steal, but he needed to find the things that would sell for the most at the market. _  
  
_He pulled out his small knapsack and set to his work as he flitted through the hallways. Silver candlesticks rested in the open on a side table. They were the first to fill his bag. They were swiftly joined by gold-lined plates, silver cutlery, and what appeared to be crystal wine glasses from the dining hall. As he dashed into a new room, careful to avoid jostling the bag too much so as not to wake anyone, he found himself inside an enormous room filled to the brim with books. A library, he'd heard they were called. Books could be valuable, he supposed, so he set to skimming the shelves._  
  
_One book stuck out of place, drawing his eye. He grinned. That would only make it easier to wrest it from the shelf without notice. He pulled the heavy thing out of place and held it in both hands. What he saw in the dim candlelight entranced him. A powerful-looking man rode atop a grey stallion, garments of brilliant blue hovering over chainmail and flowing in the breeze created by the motion of the horse. His blonde hair and beard shone like a lion's mane. _In_ one hand, he held a mighty lance that looked forged from _bone_. In the other arm, clutched to his side, was a sylph-like maiden clad in garments of white and red, silver coins descending from her hip. The sight held him captive as he traced over the mysterious symbols spelling out the title of the tome. As he stared, he felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder. _  
  
_He _leapt_ in surprise, his heart pounding in his throat as he stared up and up at the very noble who owned this place, Lord Lonato Gaspard. His pulse thrummed through him as he tried and failed to come up with an excuse, an explanation, anything that wouldn't simply get him killed on the spot. "Milord! Y-Your Grace, I er, well, y-you see I- I um, w-well-"_  
  
_He expected to be bodily thrown out, struck by a weapon or fist, or shouted at. What he didn't expect was the look of sadness and disappointment in those blue-green eyes. In a way, the disappointment unnerved him more than anger. It set guilt gnawing in his _stomach,_ like his parents were looking back at him from beyond the grave._  
  
_"You like the book, I see." His voice was gruff, but not harsh or angry. It soothed Ashe's frayed nerves. "It is one of my old favorites from my youth. If you like it, then you may take it _for_ your own."_  
  
_Ashe chewed his lip, his cheeks flush with embarrassment. "I- I would only be able to sell it, milord. I can't read." He set the book down, wringing his hands. "M-my parents died of plague before they could teach me how." He wasn't sure why he was telling this lord who had surely heard the sob stories of countless other thieves all this. Yet for some reason, he felt as though he could trust him._  
  
_Lonato's expression, already sad and worn, softened with compassion. "I could teach you_,_ if you like."_  
  
_A spark of joy entered Ashe's eyes. "Y-You could? Really?" The joy died a moment later as he recalled his brother and sister waiting for him in the _run down_ shack that served as their home, gaunt and pale and waiting for big brother to come back with food and clothes. "No. I c-can't. My siblings, they're waiting for me, and-"_  
  
_Lonato hummed thoughtfully, looking between the small boy, his knapsack full of valuables, and the book in his hands. "Then I suppose they will simply have to attend lessons with you."_  
  
_Ashe blinked, stunned. "What?"_  
  
_Lonato kneeled before the child, placing himself at eye-level with him. "I will hardly miss some candlesticks and cutlery." He pulled a small coin purse from his pocket before dropping it in Ashe's open hand. "Nor will I miss these paltry pieces of gold. Take them, take the cutlery and candlesticks, and do what you must with them. I will allow this, and will not call the guard on you, if-"_  
  
_Ashe tilted his head. "If what?"_  
  
_"If you promise to come back up here tomorrow with that book and your brother and sister in tow. Do we have a bargain?"_  
  
_Unsure how else to respond, Ashe nodded, shocked into utter silence. In addition to the shock, he felt something else churning in his stomach. Something raw and painful and sickening. Seeing the smiling faces of his siblings had been worth it, despite all the outrage he received as a thief. Yet here, this man treated him with kindness. Treated him like a part of his family. That feeling, like a dagger in his stomach; was it _shame_?_  
  
"Ashe."  
  
Startled out of his recollection, Ashe turned his head upward to find Dimitri standing over him, a concerned look on his face. He shook his head to demur that concern and rose to his feet, following the prince as though in a daze. Before meeting up with the others outside of Magdred Way, he cast his gaze back to Lord Lonato, the weight of mourning settling on his shoulders. Most of those who once loved him so well had passed on to the goddess, but this- this was the first he had sent to her side by his own hand.


	3. Field of Revenge - A Knight's Lament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ingrid never felt true regret for siding with Edelgard, even after losing almost all her friends and family. But still, when the reality of war forces her to confront her true feelings, her heart shatters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAJOR major major Crimson Flower spoilers. Seriously. This spoils one of the events of the second-to-last map of the route. Also, this is once more based off of my own playthrough. 
> 
> I tried so hard to get all three of the trio. I truly did. But playing as M!Byleth makes Sylvain a pain to recruit. So I managed to get two, but not the third. It was painful.

Rain fell heavy across the Tailtean Plains, making an already difficult evening march even more trying. Ingrid gave her loyal mount, Brynhilde, a reassuring pat on the muzzle as she nickered and snorted, twitching her wings in the cold drizzle. Petra led her mount alongside Ingrid, offering her a determined nod. Though Ingrid spent much of her time on the battlefield with the princess of Brigid due to their position as the Pegasus Vanguard, she spent little time speaking with the woman off the battlefield.  
  
In truth, she had spent little time talking with anyone since she joined with the Black Eagle Strike Force. Not Dorothea, not the Professor, not even- Felix. Something ugly twisted in her chest at the sight of him speaking so easily with Dorothea, when he had all but ignored Ingrid herself these past several years. Jealousy was an ugly emotion that had no place on the face or in the heart of a true knight. So Ingrid would not describe it as jealousy, per se. More a sense of longing for distant echoes of innocent days.  
  
The blonde knight shook her head, clearing it of such idle thoughts. Given the fearsome battle they were about to face, she could not afford to wax nostalgic. Still, what little bit of her still held faith in the goddess after all she had learned made her wish this endless rain would wash away the stain of sinful betrayal from the plates of her mint-accented armor.  
  
"Hey."  
  
She started at the sound of Felix's voice, worn down by age and trauma, hailing her from her left. "Oh. Felix. Hi there. Hello." Her ears tinged pink at the socially-awkward response. For a brief, painful second, she was back on the training grounds of Garreg Mach in their school days, with an awkward, brooding try-hard with blue-black hair trying and failing to convince her he didn't care. The illusion vanished a second later as Felix's amber eyes narrowed at her.  
  
His body language was tense, his words terse as he addressed her for the first time in nearly a month. "Make sure you're actually on the front lines this time. I won't keep covering for you."  
  
Her grip tightened on the reins of her pegasus. "You don't need to tell me to follow orders. Last I checked, I'm not the one with a propensity for disregarding commands and following whims."  
  
The words were sharp and left a taste more bitter than the blackest of Hubert's coffee brews in her mouth, but Ingrid was past the point of minding her tongue. During the assault on Arianrhod, the Professor had given Felix strict orders to remain to the rear where he could heal Ferdinand, who was best equipped to handle Lord Rodrigue. Orders Felix had promptly disregarded in favor of launching a Thoron spell directly into his father's chest. It irked her to no end. Whether it was the fact that he so willingly and gleefully murdered his father or the fact that he blatantly ignored commands from their Professor, who had never steered them wrong in the past, she wasn't sure. Whatever the case, she could not so easily ignore or forgive his actions.  
  
Felix clicked his tongue, the dismissive sound of annoyance hiding the flash of hurt as he looked away from Ingrid's accusing eyes. "Look, just do it. If you got yourself killed, in battle or not, I'd be _annoyed_."  
  
Ingrid's heart stuttered. Had Felix heard her conversation with Hubert and the professor?  
  
Well, it was less a 'conversation' and more a 'confrontation'. Chills not caused by the frigid rain rushed down her spine as she thought back to it.  
  
_"Lady Galatea? A word, if you would."_  
  
_Hubert's snake-like voice never failed to set Ingrid on edge, even after years of serving as an ally to the head of House Vestra. Still, being referred to by a title she no longer had the right to inherit tore at her already frayed nerves. She turned from tending her pegasus's mane to find not only Hubert, but the Professor standing behind her. Her stomach dropped at Hubert's imperious glare and the Professor's grim, dead-eyed expression._  
  
_"Lord Vestra. Professor." She kept her tone courteous but wary as she addressed them. "May I ask what this is regarding?"_  
  
_Hubert rubbed a hand against his perpetually clean-shaven chin, yellow-green eyes sweeping over Ingrid in a way that made her feel like a rat in the eyes of a venomous snake. "The Professor and I were reviewing reports from the invasion of Arianrhod. It has come to our attention that, while Petra felled a great many foes in the fortress, you, despite being part of her Vanguard, fought with none of the Faerghus army. Would you care to explain?"_  
  
_Ingrid's blood ran cold. So they had noticed. She did not regret her choice to side with the Empire, not truly, but if not given direct orders to do so, she would prefer not to engage with her former countrymen. And she did have a purpose for her actions in Arianrhod, something to give them a sense of plausible deniability. "I was told to scout the deeper areas of the fortress alongside Petra for more traps. That there were no further soldiers near the coffers was a fortunate coincidence."_  
  
_Hubert chuckled, his tone pricking gooseflesh beneath Ingrid's thick, fur-lined armor. "I'm not so sure. For you see, we looked over the battle reports from the previous attacks in Derdriu and the Great Bridge of Myrddin. While your sister Falcon Knights ended lives by the dozen, your confirmed kills, between both battles, mind, were merely six. Of course we prefer to end things with unnecessary bloodshed," The second dark chuckle Hubert gave made Ingrid doubt his sincerity, "But there is a difference between avoiding unnecessary bloodshed and dereliction of duty."_  
  
_Ingrid raised a brow, then narrowed her eyes as the implications of Hubert's words set in. Her fist clenched around her pegasus's reins. "'Dereliction of duty'? Just what are you implying?"_  
  
_Hubert arched a brow. "I imply nothing. I am simply making the observation that you seem hesitant to fight your former classmates and allies. I am certain you understand my position with Her Majesty requires I investigate all potential threats to her security. Between yourself and Lord Fraldarius, the potential for one or both of you to prove rats is quite high."_  
  
_Ingrid forgot herself as she snapped at the dark-haired man. "How dare you? I believe in Her Majesty's cause as much as any of us. I would never-!"_  
  
_"Ingrid. Do not interrupt again."_  
  
_The normally composed Professor's sharp tone slew any further outrage Ingrid could have mustered. Something in the man's voice and eyes seemed- off. More off than usual. He'd always been a font of emotional support, if not emotions, for the army to this point. But now, with the end of the war in sight, it felt as though all of that had fallen to the wayside in favor of strategy. Cowed into silence, Ingrid looked back to Hubert._  
  
_"Our spies have passed along a message regarding who will be among the forces at the Tailtean Plains, where it seems Dimitri will be making his final, desperate stand to defend these- inhuman beasts. Obviously, his vassal Dedue Molinario will be among them. As will Lady von Martritz and Lord Sylvain Gautier."_  
  
_Ingrid's heart stuttered. Of course Sylvain would be by Dimitri's side. "I see. Why inform me of this?"_  
  
_"I think you could use your friend Felix's actions in Arianrhod as an example to follow. Not that I approve of his defiance of orders, but having one who betrayed king and country execute their old allies seems not only poetic, but an excellent strategic test of loyalty."_  
  
_"So, what does that mean?"_  
  
_The Professor folded his arms over his ridiculously ostentatious outfit. "The Enlightened One", they called him now. What a farce, Ingrid thought, given that he was allied with those who sought to destroy the Church of Seiros and all it stood for. As did she. Still, nothing could have prepared her for the Professor's next words._  
  
_"When we meet Dimitri's army on the Tailtean Plains, I am sending you and Petra to confront Sylvain's forces. Since you are part of the cavalry and hold a relic as well, you will be the best one to dispatch him."_  
  
_Ingrid's blood ran cold. She kept her face carefully composed, unwilling to show weakness before a man who would surely exploit it. "I see. And if I were to object?"_  
  
_The smirk on Hubert's face stretched a few unpleasantly white molars wider. "I would hate to consider the consequences that would befall not only yourself, but what remains of your house, and Lord Fraldarius as well."_  
  
_Ingrid wasn't sure what chilled her more; the threat Hubert was making or the fact that the Professor made no move to stop him, offering the sinister schemer's designs his tacit approval. Logically, she knew the Professor suggested this course of action because it was the most strategically sound. Felix also held a Relic, but did not have the movement speed needed to meet Sylvain and his cavalry before they overtook the Black Eagle Strike Force's troops. Yet she couldn't shake the feeling that this was done out of a desire to punish, not to secure less casualties._  
  
She shook her head, dispelling such idle memories from her mind. Felix, seeing her non-responsive state, had left her side to confer once more with Dorothea, who gave a hollow-sounding imitation of her former girlish chuckle. Setting her own feelings aside, Ingrid leapt astride her pegasus and readied herself for the fight ahead. When Petra gave her a nod to signal her, Ingrid nodded in return and snapped the reins, bringing her pegasus airborne.  
  
As she flew high above the battlefield, rain soaking her to the bone, her mind wandered once more to thoughts of the past. Perhaps it was because Felix was the one confronting her earlier, but she couldn't help but recall how often they had spoken of a certain 'dumb ethical question' when considering tactics.  
  
_"Your commander gives orders that put your hometown in extreme danger. Do you carry out the order or protect your hometown?"_  
  
Ingrid gritted her teeth. She'd told Felix, ultimately, that she would follow her heart, as should any knight. But what, exactly, did her heart want? She wanted the world Edelgard wished to bring about more than anything. Yet when she thought about ending Sylvain herself in order to bring it about, something in her quailed. She had cast everything aside without fear until now, so why, when it was most important, did she feel like a skittish, trapped pegasus?  
  
This was Sylvain she was moving to kill. Sylvain, whose flirtatious words to her adoring grandmother had made the old woman blush and chuckle for the first time in years. Sylvain, whose messes she'd been cleaning up ever since she first met the boy with the messy red hair. Sylvain, who was perpetually useless in all else but battle. Sylvain, whose hands she had thrown off her shoulders countless times, whose touch always sent her heart fluttering into a strange dance.  
  
Her cheeks flushed. She narrowed her eyes to better see the battle below. What she saw there shook her out of her own head. One of the cavalry had abandoned his horse, clutching tight to his head as he let out a scream that devolved into a roar. His flesh blackened and bubbled, bulking up in a way Ingrid had only born witness to once or twice before, when she stumbled upon the aftermath of Imperial experiments. Faerghus, after having spent years condemning this same Imperial practice, was transforming their own soldiers into Black Beasts. The utter _hypocrisy_ set her desire for justice ablaze.  
  
From below, Sylvain's voice cut through the roaring of the beast and battle as he gestured towards his fellow chevaliers and the beast itself. "Don't let this chance for vengeance go to waste!"  
  
Those words sent Ingrid's heart into her stomach. Sylvain had seen this very transformation firsthand when the Professor asked him to help subdue his brother. He knew the pain he was putting his men through. And here he was, ordering them to give their very forms for Dimitri. As if he hadn't spent every night out until dawn for three weeks straight after it happened. As if he hadn't been near a nervous breakdown when Manuela, of all people, threatened to fail him because of how poorly he was performing. As if Ingrid hadn't put off her desire to change houses just to make sure he didn't break apart at the seams.  
  
She pulled Brynhilde into a steep dive, rushing towards the earth before pulling out, the pegasus's white wings flaring as she readied her grip on Lúin. Sylvain matched her steely gaze with a fiery glare of his own. "Stand down, Ingrid. I know you don't want to die here."  
  
Ingrid's chest swelled with a sick combination of rage and pride. As if she, who always emerged victorious in their sparring bouts at the Officers' Academy, would fall to the likes of a slacker like him. "I will not." Rage darkened to utter hatred as she thought of what he had just allowed to occur on his watch, to serve His Majesty. Ice settled in her tone and her heart as she said, "I'll never ally myself with the likes of you."  
  
Sylvain laughed, a hollow sound that she had heard all too often through the years, worn even thinner through the horrors of war. "Stubborn as ever. I always did like that about you."  
  
That Sylvain, after all these years, after what he had just allowed, had the utter audacity to smile and wink at her like this was some game, not a fight to the death, made Ingrid's eyebrow twitch. "And you never cease to amaze me with your false flattery. Don't waste your breath."  
  
Lúin glowed a fierce red in her hand, as if to accentuate her words. Sylvain prepared the Lance of Ruin. Neither of them could afford for this to be a drawn-out battle. It would need to be done in one strike. Ingrid readied her lance, and snapped the reins of her mount.  
  
Just like the jousting matches of old she used to love so well. Just like the tear-filled final battles of the stories she had read cover to cover in her youth. Just like the hundreds of other lives she had ended, both before and after this war effort began. And yet, so unlike them, for this time, she did not feel like the brave heroine. She was wounded, and she felt broken inside and out.  
  
Unlike all that she experienced before, she now faced the paling, bleeding body of that infuriating child with the ever-mussed red hair and ever-rolled sleeves. Even with all he allowed, even with all he had become, it was the face of that child Ingrid saw as he groaned out his final words.  
  
"Heh. I'm not afraid. I figured it would end like this."  
  
For once, Ingrid was glad of the rain on the battlefield as she readied her lance and moved towards the hideous monstrosity Dedue had become. It disguised the last trails of her weakness rolling down her cheeks.


	4. Field of Revenge - The Boar Prince and the Lone Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix Hugo Fraldarius has long since cast all loyalty to Faerghus aside. Yet still, when faced with the end of the Tempest King, something in his chest aches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Part 2, the final part of my Crimson Flower Betrayal series of chapters. It's based off of my first runthrough of CF, with highly implied Felix/Dorothea since I shot for their paired end. Hope you all enjoy the tears! Because I shed many when first playing this map.

Faerghus had never felt as cold and unforgiving as it did upon the Imperial Army’s march to Fhirdiad. Felix loathed every second, especially since he had gotten used to the more temperate climate of Garreg Mach. Even in the height of summer, the rain that crashed upon the Tailtean Plains felt like it should be freezing. Felix held off the urge to shiver, refusing to show weakness when foes surrounded him on all sides. 

He had more than bought and proven his loyalty to the Empire’s cause, yet Edelgard’s right hand lurked ever behind him, as though watching for some slip-up to show him for a rat. Felix loathed the man. He reminded him- _unpleasantly_\- of that rabid _cur_ the boar prince kept on a leash by his side. Though their builds could not have contrasted more, their sense of absolute, blind loyalty reeked just the same.

Even in a place divorced from the lofty ideals of chivalry Faerghus prized, it seemed the mark those disgusting virtues left upon Fodlan’s culture was indelible.

It was those same virtues that led his fool of a father, Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius, to his death. Had he been on the lookout for all enemies, not those approaching on horseback, perhaps he might have survived the assault on Fort Arianrhod. Or perhaps his fate would have been the same, given he was a commander of the Silver Maiden.

Either way, Felix could never erase from memory the expression on his father’s face when he beheld his son fighting for his hated enemy. The shock, the anger, the betrayal. Yet what haunted his thoughts the most was the tinges of _regret_ and _disappointment_ in the worn lines of the King’s Shield. Even as Rodrigue calmly stated he would settle his son’s mistakes, exclaimed that Felix would die for his sins, conflict shone in his eyes.

Felix hated it. It was far, far too late for the old fool to be expressing his regrets, even if only for the briefest of moments. Even if he’d expressed them aloud, they wouldn’t have been able to reach Felix’s heart, hardened as it was by years of resentment and tempered by the fires of righteous justice. Of that much, the swordsman was certain.

Of that much, he _had_ to be certain, or the weight of his sins would crush him as they had Ingrid.

Ingrid. That foolish girl. She had no business coming to the side of the empire alongside him. She was not meant for betrayal of home, family, king, and country. He despised her hand-wringing, weak, soft-hearted self-doubt. It gave Hubert’s suspicions a ring of truth they otherwise would never have possessed. 

He hated even more her utter inability to be honest with herself, even as she preached the virtues of ‘following one’s heart, like a true knight’. Perhaps if she admitted to her inner conflict, he would find her presence less grating. She barely even seemed to acknowledge his warning that Hubert was on to her recent ploys to avoid direct combat. 

“Hey, Felix?”

Dorothea’s melodic voice hailed him from behind. His response came out far more snappish than he intended when he inclined his head towards the nuisance that made his heart dance. “_What?_“

Dorothea sighed. “Sorry. Facing old friends can’t be easy for you. You knew them even better than I did.”

Felix’s jaw tightened as he turned to face the songstress. “They’re _not_ my friends. They haven’t been for a long time.”

Dorothea pouted, an expression Felix wasn’t sure whether he loved or loathed. “Oh, come now. Even if you weren’t all that close with them, they still used to be your classmates and countrymen. The bonds you once shared with them have to count for _something_, right?”

The ‘tch’ that came from Felix as he folded his arms didn’t sound as dismissive as he’d wanted it to. “Is there a _reason_ you came over here to bother me?”

Dorothea winked. “Just making sure my latest fan has a clear head before the last fights get started.”

“I’m _not_ your latest fan. I only promised to go to the concert, or whatever, so you wouldn’t start fake sobbing on me.”

The giggling Dorothea responded with made him want to hit things. “Oh, sure, sure. Anyway. I’ll be right by your side if you need patching up, okay?”

With a wink and a wave, Dorothea sauntered over to Edelgard, some feathers from that ridiculous boa of hers fluttering behind her. Felix scoffed at her retreating back. Honestly, if she wasn’t careful, she would get herself killed. What was she thinking, wearing something that exposed so much skin to the battlefield?

Then again, the Emperor wore something equally exposed as she inspired their team with words and dance, and Felix would never dream of voicing his displeasure with that to her face. At least, not when Hubert was around to overhear. Which was always.

His heart leapt into his throat when he heard the boar prince’s familiar booming commands soar over the Tailtean Plains. That beast never learned to stop walking on his hind legs. Seeing how many still flocked to his- and that _monstrous_ Archbishop’s- side was pathetic. A beastly king, his rabid cur of a vassal, and an inhuman fiend prancing about in human skin. What a perfect menagerie they made.

Felix gave his former best friend Sylvain a wide berth. Committed as he was to Edelgard’s cause, and putting those disgusting ideals of chivalry to the sword, if faced with Sylvain’s dying words, he doubted his resolve would hold. No, his focus was solely on his targets: that Duscur _cur_ and the Boar Prince himself.

When the first of Sylvain’s men transformed into a Demonic Beast, Felix felt more annoyed than unnerved. They doubted their own strength so much they’d literally turn themselves to beasts to hold the line? Pathetic.

As more of the Tempest King’s soldiers sacrificed their very forms for their false Goddess and King, Felix’s flare of annoyance turned to utter disgust. After hearing about the fate of Miklan Gautier, and comforting that _useless_ philanderer for weeks on end, Dimitri offered his tacit approval of that self-same transformation because it was the only thing that gave his forces a fighting chance. Yet he still had the audacity to pretend _he_ was the wronged party in this war, rather than the countless innocents whose lives he ruined with his ruthless commands? He should have let that damned chain of gravestones around his neck drag him into the dirt with Glenn years ago.

Though fear had held no place in Felix Hugo Fraldarius’s heart for many, many years, he couldn’t deny the foreboding chill which ran down his spine as he caught sight of the Duscur cur smirking to himself through the rain. If the actions of the other Kingdom soldiers were any hint, Felix had a feeling he would not like what came next.

“It is time.” Three words, barely audible over the rain pouring on the battlefield, yet they still raised gooseflesh on Felix’s neck. “Your Majesty, I will avenge your father!” The cur’s eyes bulged out of his head as he hunched over, clutching at his chest, his muscles swelling with each of his labored breaths. “You are the one true King, Dimitri!”

Felix had no choice but to stagger back with his infantry unit as Dedue swelled in size. He thought what he’d heard of Miklan’s Black Beast was gruesome, but this turned Felix’s steel stomach. When the horrifying sound of flesh and bone squelching and grinding against each other finally settled his form into order, the former man of Duscur was a hideously gigantic Black Beast standing over thirty feet tall. One of his arms could easily level a battalion if they didn’t move fast enough.

Strong, Felix may have been. A fool, he was not. He could hear Hubert conferring with some of those slithery bastards behind him to plan a magical assault. There was no need for him to stick around here. The cur never had a tolerance for magic. A team of experienced mages would be the only thing capable of bringing such a beast down.

Besides, he’d just laid eyes on his true target. The Boar Prince. The Tempest King. Holing himself up inside a fort, as if that would save him from the repercussions of his actions. What happened to the Duscur cur was irrelevant. What mattered was taking Dimitri off the field of battle as soon as possible.

Thaumaturgic energy thrummed in Felix’s fingers, the electricity likely primed by his stormy surroundings. The Boar Prince could never handle magic either. So much as he wanted Dimitri to die by his blade the way Glenn died for him in Duscur, it would be foolhardy to approach him head on. He knew that. He knew the Professor ordered him to engage the Tempest with magic, if Felix engaged him at all. And yet-

A smirk crawled across Felix’s face as his battle hunger intensified. He reached to his back, his fingers finding purchase around a blade resembling forked lightning. Yes, perhaps a compromise was in order. Dying by a magical blade was still dying to his blade, by a certain interpretation. He slowed his pace as he neared the steps of the ruined fort where the Tempest King oversaw the battle.

He wanted to make sure Dimitri saw him. He wanted to make sure Dimitri _knew_ the face of his killer.

The boar prince’s eyes widened, then narrowed as Felix crested the steps. That damnable crease in his brow; Felix despised it. How dare this _monster_ patronize him by looking at him like he was _disappointed_?

“Not only have you become the emperor’s lapdog, but you have turned against your own people! From the depths of hell, you will regret tainting the land of Faerghus!”

It was all Felix could do not to scoff, laugh, or both. Taint Faerghus? A land tainted since its very founding by a corrupted, rotting church and a death-worshipping cult of chivalry? The very notion was laughable.

Dimitri’s disappointed gaze softened. He actually had the gall to look heartbroken at a time like this? “You killed Rodrigue... Your own _Father_, Felix.”

It had to be this damnable rain making his vision blur. Not tears. The Felix that shed tears had passed away over a decade ago. It was the wear that battle put on his voice that made it strain. Not sadness. “I said I’d cut down anyone in my way. Even my father. Even my friends.”

Friends. As if that word had applied to Dimitri for the past decade. It didn’t. It doesn’t.

Whatever weak-hearted sentimentality Dimitri had been holding onto faded into nothingness in that moment. “I see. That was all I needed to hear to finally work up the resolve to kill you.”

Felix tightened his grip on his blade. He hoped it was merely the rain that made Areadbhar’s blade look like it was twitching, not that Dimitri’s spear itself hungered for blood the way His Beastliness did. He couldn’t risk allowing Dimitri to get in range.

He raised his voice in a battle cry, the power of his Crest fueling the magical energy crackling through his veins. “It’s too late for you!”

He raised his sword to the heavens, channeling the magic swirling in his blood through the blade like a bolt of lightning from the heavens. He thought he saw the afterimage of the Shield’s Crest in the air for the briefest of moments before the bolt struck true and Dimitri screamed in pain, paralyzed momentarily by the electricity pouring through his body.

Any normal human should have died from the force of that blow. But that damned boar only lost his grip on his lance for a moment and collapsed to his knees, crying through gritted teeth, “No! Not yet! I can’t die just yet!”

Footsteps behind Felix betrayed the Emperor’s approach before Dimitri glowered up at her with shadowed eyes, snarling at her like the beast he was. “Edelgard! You... I will kill you! You will know the regret of my father, who was killed for you!” Felix somehow sincerely doubted Lambert’s death had a damn thing to do with Edelgard. “Of my stepmother, who was slain by her own daughter!” Now, the boar was only spouting nonsense. “You will bow your head before all the lives you trampled for your ideals before you die in misery!”

Edelgard’s mixed pity and disgust was palpable as she addressed the charges laid on her by the dying boar. “Your obsession with me is appalling. If you were a normal human, you would most certainly have died already. Farewell, King of Delusion. If only we were born in a time of peace, you might have lived a joyful life as a benevolent ruler.”

Part of Felix wanted to raise the objection that they _had_ been living in a time of relative peace before this unavoidable, damnable war, yet, when he considered how that twisted bastion of corrupt hypocrites made the lives of his few personal friends utterly miserable, he had no choice but to acknowledge the past was hardly peaceful.

That damned beast died choking on his spite, even as Amyr parted his head from his shoulders. “To the fires of eternity with you... El...”

Felix didn’t know how he expected to feel when he was, at last, freed of the shadow of that beast calling itself a king and his friend. Part of him hoped for relief, that he could finally _move on_ with his damned life instead of being chained by these useless ties to a broken homeland. Yet, just as when he’d stood over the paling corpse of his father, Felix felt only emptiness. A void in his chest, where his heart should have been breaking.

Perhaps he’d been at war too long. Like that crazed bastard Jeritza, battle was the only thing that put blood in Felix’s veins anymore. Battle, and some vain, vague hope that all of this would be worth a better world.

For someone who’d just slain what should have been merely another enemy commander, Edelgard looked shaken. They’d all interacted, briefly, during their school days, yet Edelgard seemed stricken by a much stronger grief.

Rumors swirled amongst the king’s closest companions for years about the girl living under everyone’s noses in Fhirdiad, then just as soon vanishing back whence she came. Felix remembered wanting to see Dimitri and being denied that visit by his father, who grew cagey when asked about the reason behind his denial. Rodrigue said Dimitri already had a guest, and Felix mustn’t be rude by intruding. Sylvain off-handedly mentioned Dimitri’s utter gaffe in handing a dagger as a parting gift to some maiden he’d had a crush on. Dimitri lost all grip on his sanity after hearing that Edelgard was the Flame Emperor, for reasons unknown to anyone. It was that utter snap which drove Felix fully into the fold of the Black Eagles.

Yet Felix couldn’t shake a strange sense that there was some connection between those disparate chunks of information. Some link that explained Dimitri’s feral demeanor, beyond being a madman, and Edelgard’s out-of-character grief.

Felix agreed completely with Edelgard’s assertion that the ‘her’ that shed tears died many years ago. He’d killed the crying boy Felix himself upon his brother’s death. With that in mind, he still had to say: It’s a terrible night for rain.


	5. The Impregnable Fortress - Facing the Masked One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mercedes reflects on the past as she prepares herself, mentally and emotionally, for the march on Fort Merceus, where she will face her brother Emile in one final conflict to lay the Death Knight to rest.

Mercedes leaned her head against Dorte, Marianne’s old favorite horse from the academy days. Her heart ached to think of the blue-haired young lady whose eyes always looked so tired back then. Marianne, who was the only one who matched Mercedes’ level of devotion to the Goddess, always rebuffed her attempts to share sweets with her, insisting she was fine, truly, there was no need to waste such energy on her. She had that same sadness in her eyes that Mercedes had seen haunting Dimitri’s, even back then. Marianne and Dimitri had even been close, before Edelgard’s betrayal and the war that unfolded.

They could have been good for each other. But when the monastery came under attack and nearly collapsed, and everyone scattered to the winds in the aftermath, everyone lost touch with Marianne. People tried sending letters to her territory if they had resources to spare. None of them ever received a reply. Mercedes worried for her. She worried for everyone.

Then one night, shortly after everyone reunited at the monastery, the Professor came to Mercedes and Annette with a horribly shaken look on her face. Mercedes could still clearly recall how she dropped the cup of Southern Fruit Blend halfway to her lips as the Professor, in his deadpan manner, told them how he discovered a moldering corpse, a chair, and a noose in Marianne’s room when he went to examine the former living quarters to ensure their usability.

The tea stained the carpet horribly. But who could care about things like that when hearing an old friend like Marianne had taken the straightest road back to the Goddess? She’d overheard Marianne’s prayers to the Goddess once, begging in a breaking voice to be taken home. Mercedes, concerned, made it a point to offer Marianne companionship and sweets whenever she could after that.

Her efforts only intensified when the Professor came to Mercedes with a tightly folded confessional letter to the Goddess. Mercedes was fairly certain it wasn’t her letter, but given her scatter-brained nature, she had to skim over it to make sure. It felt wrong to pry into someone’s affairs, but she had to tell the Professor to spend more time with Marianne, to look after her. He’d nodded at her suggestion, and Marianne kept joining them as a monthly assistant for mission after mission.

She’d seemed like she was getting better. Like she was _happy_. Everyone hoped she would come to join the Blue Lions, but she always demurred the offer. And yet, all the same, when the monastery fell, she threw her own life into the Goddess’s hands. Tears fell from Mercedes’ eyes as she offered Dorte another comforting pat to the muzzle. Poor Marianne must have been so terrified. But hopefully, at least now, she had some sense of peace at the Goddess’ side.

Dorte whinnied and knickered. Something had unnerved her. Mercedes wasn’t sure what until she heard Dimitri’s familiar, broken voice. “Stop looking at me like that! My heart can’t take it!”

Mercedes hesitated in her comforting pats for Dorte, biting her lip. Dimitri was talking to someone that wasn’t there again. He’d been doing it far less lately, ever since Dedue returned and Rodrigue passed. But it seemed he still struggled with the ghosts of the past. Perhaps she should go get the Professor? He always seemed to be able to bring Dimitri back out of these spells-

“I’m sorry. I’m so, _so_ sorry. I failed. I _failed_ you, Marianne. I couldn’t save you. But please, _please_, don’t look at me with such pity in your eyes! I’ll make amends to you somehow, I swear it!”

Mercedes couldn’t help a gasp when she heard her old friend’s name shatter in Dimitri’s voice. Marianne had never condemned Dimitri and would never offer condemnation to anyone. Except herself. The Goddess must have called Mercedes to the stables to comfort Dorte today so she could also offer comfort to Dimitri. It was the least she could do before they set out for Fort Merceus.

Besides, helping someone else would help take her mind off her own troubles for a while.

She followed the sound of Dimitri’s crying voice to the former Knights’ Hall. Based on the way people rushed around there, Mercedes imagined Dimitri was within, but miles beyond anyone’s reach. She hesitated before rapping on the door to announce her entrance. “Dimitri? It’s Mercedes. May I come in?”

Dimitri paused in his self-loathing lambasting, breathing as though winded. Based on the rhythmic nature of the heavy pants, he was mimicking a breathing exercise the Professor had led them through many, many times when stress abounded in class or in war council. After a long moment, he growled, “Yes, come on in. I’m just leaving.”

Mercedes entered the room, but blocked the door to prevent Dimitri from exiting. “Oh, no you don’t, Dimitri!” She folded her arms with a pout. “You’re not going anywhere in that state.” Her gaze softened when she saw the faint tremor in Dimitri’s fingers. “Do you think talking about it would help?”

Dimitri hesitated, then clenched his fist to quell the trembling in his fingers. “There’s nothing to talk about. Merely another phantom. Nothing more.”

Mercedes frowned. She’d hoped Dimitri trusted her enough to move past this evasiveness of his. Yet it still seemed there was a wall between them, even now. She took a deep breath, then sighed. “I miss her too, you know. We didn’t talk much, but I still thought of her like a friend.” She bit her lip, hesitant. The wound was likely too raw to risk prying open like this, and yet, she needed to know where he really stood. “But I guess for you, she was something more than that?”

The shuddering gasp she received in reply told her all she needed to know. Reaching out to touch him like this likely crossed a line, but the best way Mercedes knew to comfort Dimitri was to take his hands, just as she’d seen the Professor do once or twice. She blinked away tears as she addressed him. “Y-You know, when I first heard about her passing, I spent almost two weeks searching the library for a ritual to talk to her spirit?” A broken giggle escaped as she reflected on her blindness. “Such a foolish thing, really. I’d always wanted to find a way to speak with spirits before, but it became something of an obsession for a moment. I wanted to talk to my friend again.” She shook her head. “But then, when I saw what even thoughts of the spirits of the dead did to you, I started thinking that perhaps it was better not to try crossing that gap. I _found_ that ritual, but I never used it. When I think about it, she probably wouldn’t be too happy I called her like that.”

Something between a broken sob and a snort broke from Dimitri’s throat. “She never enjoyed being around other people. She always felt she would bring them misfortune, or somesuch. Yet, like me, she feared actually being left alone. I- I saw something of myself in her, and I thought- I kept thinking that maybe, just maybe, if I can reach out my hand and save her, then there was hope for me, as well.” His one remaining eye welled and reddened with fresh tears. “But I couldn’t bridge that gap. I failed to protect her. I failed to _save_ her. Her death is on _my_ hands.”

Mercedes pulled back from Dimitri as an exasperated scoff rang out over her shoulders. “Oh, _come on_.”

When she turned back to the door, Mercedes saw Catherine leaning against it, an annoyed look on her face. Dimitri seemed surprised by her presence, his voice taking a softer, more familiar tone as he addressed the Knight of Seiros. “Catherine...”

Catherine wasted no time in shoving past Mercedes so she could get in Dimitri’s face. Mercedes wanted to scold her for being so rude, and yet, somehow, she felt it wiser to remain silent and allow Catherine to speak her piece.

“Are you seriously still on about that _nonsense_ that that girl’s death was your fault?” Catherine narrowed her eyes at Dimitri as she bodily shoved him backward. “Goddess, you’re more of an idiot than I thought.” Dimitri opened his mouth, his teeth bared like a beast about to defend itself, but Catherine quickly spoke over his burgeoning complaints, her voice resounding like a thunderclap. “Now you listen here. Marianne’s death was a tragedy. There’s no other word for it when someone takes their own life. But it was still _her choice_ to end her life. Don’t you _dare_ rob her of that agency by pretending this was a death you could have shielded her from!”

Light a bolt out of the heavens, Thunderbrand’s wielder’s words struck true. Dimitri shrunk back from the former scion of House Charon like a scolded child. While Mercedes wasn’t sure how she felt about Catherine’s bluntness, she had to admit; it was what Dimitri needed in this moment. Since Catherine seemed to have the situation in hand, she withdrew from the Knight’s Hall and returned to the stables. 

She paused when she saw Ferdinand there, running a brush through Dorte’s mane. The red-haired Paladin had this horrible habit of showing up and helping her when she didn’t ask him to. Yet, whenever she saw how much trouble he went to for her sake, her heart skipped a few beats. After a moment, he noticed Mercedes’ presence, and withdrew, offering her a winning smile. “Ah, Mercedes! I was just making sure Dorte was in peak condition before she rode with you to Fort Merceus. Since I, alas, will not be joining the first wave of troops, I will not likely see you until we reach Enbarr proper.”

Mercedes wrung her hands as she searched for something to say to Ferdinand, but her voice failed her. Being reminded of Fort Merceus made her recall just who was stationed there, and it made her heart sink. At length, she settled on, “Th-thank you. I appreciate your kindness. A-And I’ll be praying for your safe journey.”

Ferdinand’s expression softened from his usual theatrical posturing. “I shall be praying for you as well. You will soon face the Death Knight again. Given his true identity, I know it must be difficult for you.”

Mercedes’ fingers flew to her throat, where the Hero’s Relic of Lamine rested on a choker. She could feel the thrum of magic through her veins as she gently pressed the Rafail Gem. She had all but begged Emile to look at her, to take his mask off, to please, _please_ come to their side of the battle. Yet he stubbornly refused, only throwing the gem to her as some awkward means of praying for her safety. “I- I just wish there were more I could have done to save him. I keep thinking, ‘if only Mother and I hadn’t left House Bartels’.” She shook her head with a sad sigh. “But thinking like that is pointless, I suppose. The past is the past, and we must live in the present.”

Arms wrapped around her, holding her close. Ferdinand smelled heavily of tea olive blossoms, leather, weapon oil, and Southern Fruit Blend tea. He always took such good care of himself, even in the midst of this horrible war. Now used to the sights and smells of the battlefield, being so suddenly enfolded in something so sweet and comforting brought Mercedes to tears. He rubbed comforting circles on her back, just as she had so often done for her friends in the past. His tenor voice resonated through her chest as he murmured, “I apologize if this is too forward, I simply cannot stand seeing a noble maiden weep like this.”

Mercedes giggled even as she wept into Ferdinand’s muscular chest. If those words had come from Sylvain, she would doubt their sincerity. Yet, unlike his fellow red-haired noble, Ferdinand’s words and actions radiated pure, earnest sincerity. She returned Ferdinand’s embrace. “Thank you, Ferdinand. Truly. You’ve done so much for me, even when I didn’t ask it of you. I only hope once this war ends-“

She trailed off, her cheeks flaring. She’d been so determined for so long to live her life in service of the church that the thought of marrying had never crossed her mind. And yet, she could not deny the appeal of Ferdinand remaining forever by her side. 

“Yes? ‘Once this war ends’, what?”

She pulled back, her cheeks still aflame, offering a cheery smile as she wiped her eyes. “U-Um, nothing. I should prepare to depart. I’m sure the others are already ready to move out.”

Ferdinand seemed reluctant to let her go, but released her without complaint. “Yes, of course.” He hesitated. “Mercedes?”

Mercedes blinked. “Yes, Ferdinand?”

His cheeks nearly outshone his hair. “I look forward to meeting you once again in a few weeks.” His expression became serious. “Promise me you will not sacrifice yourself to your brother’s scythe. It would not do for this army to lose its guiding light, after all.”

Mercedes sighed, her fingers subconsciously stroking the Rafail Gem at her throat. _Do not die until I can kill you._ Her brother was still in there, somewhere. She was sure. He had every right to be angry with her. Every right to kill her.

But he wouldn’t. She wouldn’t let him. And, somewhere deep inside, she had a feeling that he didn’t truly want to kill her.

“I can’t promise you that I won’t die. But I will promise not to allow the Death Knight to kill me without a fight. Is that a fair promise?”

Ferdinand nodded. “That is all I can ask. Safe travels, and Goddess protect you, Mercedes.”

The ride to Fort Merceus felt like it slipped by faster than it should. Her heart hammered in her chest like the battering ram they used to destroy the massive fortress’ front gates. She rode with Caspar, Flayn, Ingrid, Annette and Seteth towards the northeast, where it appeared the vast majority of the Empire’s mages had taken up intercepting positions. While neither Caspar nor Seteth would handle magic particularly well, their agile mounts allowed them some avoidance they otherwise wouldn’t have. Not only that, but with Annette dancing and singing to lighten their spirits, they could weave in and out of the many troops with ease and take out the ballisticians that would devastate their numbers otherwise.

Unfortunately, Linhardt stood to block their path, devastating white magic at his command. Caspar looked to Mercedes and the others behind him, a pained expression on his face. “I can take care of this guy. You guys need to hurry and get to the Death Knight before he gets ordered to withdraw or something!”

Mercedes frowned when she saw the way Annette’s face twisted at Caspar’s words. “Caspar, are you- are you sure? That’s Linhardt. Wasn’t he your-?”

Caspar cut Annette off with a desperate shout. “I said I’ll _handle_ this guy, just get _going_ already!”

Mercedes gently spurred Dorte into moving so she could right up to Annette. “Annie, it’s Caspar’s choice to fight him. Let him settle things as he needs to. A-And I’ll do the same.”

Annette wrung her hands. “I- I know it’s his choice, but still! Caspar’s terrible at dealing with magic, and I’m just _worried_ about him!” She huffed in exasperation, then gave Mercedes a compassionate look. “Take care of yourself, Mercie. Be careful.”

Mercedes nodded, then gave Dorte a gentle pat to encourage her to move up the stairs blocking their path. As she ascended the steps and arrived at the entrance to Fort Merceus closest to Enbarr, the Death Knight in all his horrific, bloodstained glory came into view. Try as Mercedes might, no matter how she stared into the soulless depths of those glowing red eyes behind his mask, she couldn’t see anything of the Emile she used to know. She knew Lord Bartels had thrown abuse at them left right and center while they lived as ‘temporary guests to his kindness’ in his home, but what in the world could have changed Emile, who used to break down sobbing if he accidentally stepped on a cat’s paw, into a man who relished in bloodshed and seemed overjoyed and almost _aroused_ when bathing in the blood of battle.

Sweet, kindhearted Emile who only used to like the color red when it was in a rose’s petals was now a monstrous serial killer, and it simply didn’t make sense to Mercedes at all. She knew he had to be there, somewhere, hiding beneath that horrific helmet, so she extended a hand towards him with a gentle smile. “I came here to get you. Let’s return together... Emile...”

The Death Knight’s grip upon his scythe tightened. His voice almost seemed to tremble beneath its magical augmentation. “Leave... The place of your death is not here...”

She adjusted her grip on Dorte’s reins, then pulled a forged Blessed Lance from her back. While she was not the strongest, by any means, she had been taught the weaknesses of cavalry units well. She and Emile charged at each other like knights at a jousting tournament in a story he used to demand their mother read over and over again. She just barely twisted out of the way of the Scythe of Sariel as it swung for her, then stabbed the Blessed Lance forward. As Emile fell from his horse, clutching at his side, he said, “To kill, to die… To know one without the other would be maddening.”

A stray arrow flew from behind Mercedes, knocking the Death Knight’s mask off and sending him tumbling to the ground. At that moment, it didn’t matter to Mercedes that many of her comrades still needed healing. It didn’t matter that enemies surrounded her on all sides. All she saw was an aged version of her precious little brother’s face, contorted with pain and painted with sweat. 

She leapt from Dorte and knelt by Emile’s side, cradling his paling, dying body in her lap. Emile’s lavender eyes, the same as her own, seemed red around the edges as he fought with all his might to cling to life. Tears welled in her eyes as she stroked his hair from his face, just as she had done all those years ago. “Emile... I’m so sorry... This is all my fault for leaving you behind when I left House Bartels.” Even though leaving him behind was the wiser move, and Mercedes could admit that, she would never forgive herself for doing so. Especially if this was how it would end. “I should have come back for you sooner...”

“Argh...”

Emile’s face was so pale now. The last time she’d seen him look so sickly, he’d been a small boy, ill from spending far too long playing outside in the rare snowstorm in the Empire. Lord Bartels had slapped Mercedes and her mother across the face for daring to allow his Crest-bearing heir to come to harm. Mercedes felt so terrible about the whole thing. And now, just as Bartels had argued all those years before, she was a useless sibling who couldn’t even protect her own brother. “I’m sorry for not being a better sister to you.”

Emile’s eyes focused on her face at last. He struggled for consciousness and coherence as he reached a trembling hand for her face. “Mer...cedes...”

His bloodied hand reached for her cheek. As it brushed her face, he offered a soft smile. In that moment, for just a second, she could see the brother she adored so much beneath the mask he had become.

His hand fell limp a moment later.

Mercedes had grown used to seeing life leave soldiers after years in this horrible war, but this destroyed her heart in a way no other loss had. She threw herself over Emile’s corpse, cradling it close as she sobbed, helpless to her grief.

She didn’t know how long it had been since her crying began. She only knew that the next thing she felt was Annette’s familiar, dainty fingers laying gently on her shoulder. “Mercie, we need to go. Now.”

Mercedes knew that. She knew they needed to keep moving if they hoped to reach Enbarr before Edelgard could summon more forces. She let Emile’s body fall back to the stone floor of Fort Merceus. Someone would bury him eventually. For now, she had to stay with the front lines.

She stood from Emile’s side, playing with the Rafail Gem as she murmured, “...Good-bye...”

Whenever they stopped to make camp, she would, as ever, be the first to pray for the fallen. Tonight, she would say an extra prayer for the Goddess to find it in her heart to welcome Emile to her side, even despite all he had done. It was all she could do to make amends for having failed so utterly as an older sister.


End file.
